Fresh Meat
by Predominantly Normal
Summary: This was Tweek's new reality. There was no turning back. There were no second guesses. He was a monster.


**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK**

**A/N: I'm back, guys! From now until October 31st there's gonna be nothing but horrorfics to celebrate the season! Lets do a quick head count real quick though. I've written two fics now where Tweek is a cannibal, and two fic where Tweek kills his parents; three total. I just can't help it that I'd literally find it plausible for Tweek to do this... Sorry.**

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It was September 14th, a particularly freezing day in South Park, when Tweek Tweak made a monumental discovery.

As per Therapist request, he'd started to take things much easier. No freaky adventures with Stan's group, no giant Guinea pigs trying to destroy mankind, and most certainly no taking part with the social community. It was like following sheep to a slaughterhouse; you never know what's gonna happen until the sheep in front of you doesn't come back. So Tweek opted to stay away from all of it and stay in the comfort of his own house.

Which, resulted in nothing but problem. The power had been out in all houses and stores in South Park, caused by the unusually frigid temperatures that the small town was experiencing. It'd been a week, and Tweek knew that his food rations were out. His parents were trapped up in some other city at the airport, unable to come back to South Park. They'd been out meeting relatives that Tweek didn't want to see, doing things that Tweek didn't want to do.

Tweek had tried raiding the nearby stores, but it appeared as if Cartman had already claimed all the food marts on one side of the city, Kyle and Stan claiming the other. If there was one thing he didn't want was to deal with those troublemakers. He knew briefly that the Black's household was probably powered up and stockpiled, but it was nearly ten miles away. Add two feet deep snow, and you're begging for gangrene.

Tweek sat up in the living room of his cold house, wrapping a blanket around himself and fretting about finding something to eat. The day before he'd gone without food completely, and the twitchy teen didn't know how much longer he could last. He bit his chapped lips nervously, eyes darting sporadically around the house. After some time, an idea began forming in his head. Immediately, he shunned it.

But it kept poking and prodding at the back of his head, nagging him like a loose stone in one's shoe. The one you absolutely sure you've kicked out, but minutes later you feel it prod your foot again. Tweek frowned. His idea was putrid, but he was starved and desperate. The blonde haired boy quickly threw on a trench coat and boots, grabbing a shovel on his way outside. As he stepped out, the brisk wind whipped at his face. The snow was already rapidly descending on him, soaking through the fabric of his coat.

He trekked through the snow for what may have been only five minutes, but felt like five hours. The cold stung his skin, and he was drowning in the powdery snow. Hail pelted his head and he could hardly see three feet in front of him. It was a cruel walk to the South Park cemetery.

The usually dismal place was even creepier in the night, with howling winds and the spruce trees cloaked in snow. Tweek's green eyes darted about rapidly, scanning the macabre landscape madly. He checked over his shoulder, an act that went in vain due to not being able to see more than a yard or so through the blizzard. He released a shaky breath and twitched before turning back around. With hasty, scuttling movements, Tweek edged towards the newest part of the cemetery.

The graves had been placed far back when the cemetery was first born. They were in an orderly fashion, with no real design as it had seemed inconvenient. The oldest graves were in the back, covered in resilient ivy and moss with the names nearly eroded into nothingness. The newer ones were all on the rightmost side of the cemetery, right when you walked in.

Finally, Tweek found himself standing over the grave that was freshest; a fancy-looking headstone with the name 'Dawson Smith' engraved on it. Tweek felt a gut wrenching pain in the pit of his stomach, like someone had tied a barbed wire around his abdomen and held it taught, tugging relentlessly every time his spade struck the frozen ground. The blonde knew in the back of his head that it was undeniable guilt. He felt nauseous, but between morals and his desperate starvation, the latter won out. He put all his force into the motions of the metal shovel, digging through the harsh earth.

It was difficult; the silvery white covered ground was compactly iced. Even the iron of the spade barely dented the earth with Tweek's force. It took nearly three hours to completely unearth the oriental casket, and not more than primal need and desperation fueled the excavation. Tweek gnawed on his lip nervously before using his frostbitten fingers to clumsily unlatch the casket.

The body still looked strikingly fresh, the skin still retaining a look of health. Tweek kneeled down over it, fingers gently tracing the man's face. It was harsh and rugged, with and angular chin and a natural looking scowl.

"I'm sorry." He managed to say, voice cracking awkwardly. Without further apology, he yanked the corpse out and used his own momentum to sling it over his shoulder.

The dead weight pulled him down, but Tweek managed to claw his way out of the grave. Throwing the body onto the snow, he quickly ducked back in the grave to latch the coffin shut once more. He worried briefly about the mound of dirt, but managed to convince himself that he'd cover the hole back up later. With what little energy he still had, Tweek rushed out of the graveyard with the dead body of Dawson Smith over his shoulder.

When he had gotten inside, Tweek slammed the door shut and heaved a sigh. His skin stung with frostbite. It was red and splotchy- ugly at best. But Tweek couldn't bring himself to worry about this. He had a dead body in his house. The blonde went to work immediately, more or less dragging the body into the kitchen. He realized that there was no electricity to heat the human flesh and meat.

Grimly, Tweek tried to heat the corpse to at least room temperature with a cheap lighter. Cosmetics that were applied to the face melted, and the suit caught fire more than once. When the body was as warm as Tweek thought possible, he snatched a serrated knife off the counter and went to work. Again, the sickness of guilt plagued him, but the need for food overwhelmed any morals he had.

Tweek carefully cut an incision in the fatty skin on the man's arm. He was a sick minded human being now; there was no turning back. There were no second guesses. The blonde carefully hacked at the skin until he had a proportional piece of fatty flesh separated from the rest of the body. He examined it for a moment, watching the crimson blood drip down his hands and stain his shirt. He carefully ducked his head and bit into the meat, tasting coppery fluid full his mouth and invade his nostrils.

Strangely enough, however, he didn't find this disgusting in the least. In fact, it was the one of the greatest things he'd ever experienced.

Tweek didn't like eating animals because they were innocent creatures. He was a strict vegetarian. But humans; they were different. Humans killed their own kind. Humans did awful things. Humans were disgusting creatures. Tweek included.

This new meat tasted surprisingly like veal, sort of fatty and tender. His incisors easily ripped through the morsels, saliva dripping down his chin and intermixing with the overflowing scarlet blood. His nose was overflowing with poignant scents of decay and rot. The new sensations and experiences enticed Tweek, to the point where he would spend no more time with the knife and simply drove his teeth into the tender flesh. He was primal and viscous. Not pausing to think. Not wanting to.

When he felt satisfied with what he'd eaten, Tweek casually snagged some coffee beans from off the shelf of his cupboard. He'd have to be up tonight, as he had for the last few days. Without power, anything could break into his house and kill him while he was sleeping. He would stay up until he passed out from exhaustion.

When Tweek woke up the next day, he had completely forgotten about the corpse until he'd happened upon it. The putrid thing was sprawled across his kitchen floor, blood and saliva coating the tiles. Realization crashed into him, and he screamed. Loud. Still-frostbitten hands, soaked with red, shot into his hair, pulling at the blonde mess madly.

"Oh god. Oh god. Oh god." Tweek breathed, twitching and holding onto the arm of the couch for support. He'd managed to rip a good sized clump of blonde hair out of his skull without even noticing. He'd done something awful. There was no forgiveness now; no recompense or excuse.

Sick to his stomach, Tweek vomited. Over and over until there was nothing left to puke out and he was left dry-heaving. He was disgusting, blood, spit, and now vomit coating his clothing and face. Tweek managed to pull himself away from the mess before passing out, black invading his brain before he even hit the ground.

Tweek Tweak was a monster. And nobody, not anyone in the whole world, could know.

As his conscious mind began to function once more, Tweek had begun. To ease this new reality into his psyche and he was ready to confront it. As stone-faced as possible, he changed, showered, and cleaned up a majority of the mess. He carried on with his day as if nothing was out of the ordinary because nothing was. This was the new normality to him.

He read a book, cleaned the house, and drew a picture of a pirate riding a T-Rex. He nonchalantly ate more of the corpse; the rest of the arm and part of the torso. He called his parents and asked when they'd be home, to which they said, "Soon, honey. Take care of yourself." Tweek just nodded even though he knew they wouldn't be able to see. He was more than capable of taking care of himself.

This slightly altered life followed Tweek for five days afterwards, to which he was almost finished with the body, only the left calf and foot left. There was still a nagging tug at his stomach, but that became a way of life too. He didn't say a word. He woke up, ate, cleaned, showered (the water was thankfully still functional), read, ate again, stayed up to watch for underpants gnomes, passed out, wash, rinse, repeat.

It was on the sixth day where Tweek was finishing the leg, the power still out, yet the snow having been melted considerably, when his parents returned. He had started digging into the leg, the muscles being much more tough than the fat and requiring a knife and fork. The teenager had just stuffed a fat chunk of flesh into his mouth when the unhinging lock alerted him and the door brashly swung open. He quickly swallowed, although he knew it would do little. There was still enough of the leg to easily identify it.

"Tweek-" His father choked when he seen the gruesome sight in front of him. "What the frick are you doing?" Although 'frick' wasn't exactly the word he used.

Mrs. Tweak had grabbed desperately onto her husband, eyes wide. "Honey," she said, dragging out the word sweetly. "Would you mind explaining this to us?" She gulped. She was a mousy woman, and now she quivered in fear.

Tweek stared at the leg. Then at his parents. Then back at the tough meaty flesh. Then back at his parents who could easily become that flesh. Then at the cold glinting knife laying on the table not even a foot away.

Tweek figured the knife was the only logical choice in his panicked and paranoia-ridden mind. He carefully and discreetly clutched the hilt of the knife. And in one fluid movement, he jumped away from his chair, charged his father and stuck the serrated blade in the man's throat. For safe measure, he viscously twisted the knife. His father choked and crumpled to the ground. Gurgling noises emitted from him as blood poured out the gaping wound in his throat. It bubbled and flowed onto the magenta carpeting, blending nicely into the shag rug.

Quickly, Tweek ripped the knife from his father, and held it, staring coldly at his mother. Mrs. Tweak was shaking wildly, panicking and sobbing. A pang of guilt struck him, but only for a split second. The sociopathic teen had grown too accustomed to guilt. It meant nothing anymore. He stared at his mother carelessly. Humans, he reminded himself, were disgusting. Even mothers were not exempt.

"I won't tell a soul, honey! I swear it!" She sobbed heavily, body wracking with each inhale and exhale. Tweek lowered his bloodstained weapon and stared at her. He carefully padded closer to his mom, cringing when she flinched.

"Promise?" He asked. He felt small. It was difficult to breathe.

"Of course, sweetie." His mom babbled. "I suppose I'll just- ah - get my novel." She carefully grabbed a romance book from her purse and retreated upstairs. Tweek watched her go up, then pulled his dead father into the kitchen. The fresh kill was still warm, and Tweek felt escaping when he rubbed his father's cheek. The man's eyes were still open, forced open by fear and pain. Life had already been completely sucked out from his dull amber eyes. Every strand of disheveled chestnut hair was in a hyper realistic definition.

Tweek frowned for a moment, contemplating something. As realization hit him, he raced up the stairs into his parent's room where he found his mother, crouched over the bed, fumbling with the numbers on their cordless telephone. Tweek grit his teeth. Anger swelled in his stomach like a flash flood-unpredictable and deadly. The sudden burst of emotion made him want to cry, but he refused to shed a tear.

"You lied!" He snarled, hands clenching. His mother yelped, jolting upright. She turned her head, but Tweek already had his hands on her neck. His bony fingers constricted her breathing. She struggled to overthrow her son, but he had become a ruthless animal. He kneed her in the gut violently and held firm until he felt one last random spasm, and his mother fell limp. Tweek didn't even blink when his cold eyes met the dying ones of his mother. He didn't cry a tear. He refused to.

Tweek had come to terms with himself by now. He was a monster. He accepted that and knew that crying wouldn't change a thing.

Because deep down, he'd always been a monster. From when he'd been a little boy, to his fight in third grade, to becoming something of a social recluse, to this very moment. He carefully cradled his mother's corpse, smelling the tart aroma of death and coconut shampoo. He found it a pleasing scent. Tweek ran his lanky fingers through her hair, carefully combing out the knots. Whatever anger he'd possessed a few moments ago was gone. She was dead now. She couldn't call anyone for help. No more lies.

Tweek wrapped his arms around his mothers corpse, feeling the warmth of life escape and get replaced by the cold of death. He pulled back and hefted the body over his shoulder, taking it back down to the kitchen and throwing it next to his dad. It lay limply, sprawled across the tile floor. The kitchen was odd looking, a sleek red tint covering the shiny ceramic tile.

He didn't care about the still-present leg on his table. He didn't care about the bloodstains on the carpet, or his father's still haunting stare. He cared about surviving. He had more than enough sustenance to keep himself alive and feed his new addiction, and this time, the meat was fresh.

**Edit: Revision 1.0**


End file.
